The Girl Who Ate Everything

Happy 2009! I completely fell behind on my plan to sum up 2008 before 2009 began, but here are my picks for the "Ten Most Memorable Posts" anyway, "memorable" entailing the good and the bad (although mostly good). If my writing sound wonky, it's because I'm thisclose to flumping my head on the table with an intense case of the sleepies.

Beer.

Charlottesville, Day 5: Happy New Year, Vietnamese Dinner Explosion, and Back to Jersey (January 21): New Year's Eve in 2008 was nothing like the laid back celebration I had a few days ago. It was memorable for the wrong reasons: awkward social situation, surrounded by alcohol I didn't drink, surrounded by people I didn't know, stayed up late cleaning up alcohol-related debris left behind by people I didn't know, etc. But it was a worthy experience to get under my belt and I had some really good friends within arm's reach to make sure I didn't go insane.

Observe.

Robert Arbor: Personal French Chef in a Tiny East Village Kitchen (February 2): What do you do when an awesome French chef offers to cook in your tiny East Village apartment? You let him. And then you feast on home cooked pork chops and bok choy and wonder how this surreal experience came to be.

CAKE.

Brighton Beach and Beyond, Part 2: Carrot Cake, Durian, and Pupusas (March 3) Damn, that carrot cake from M&I was awesome. Many cool things were eaten during that day in Brighton Beach while accompanied by some of the funnest people I know, but in the end I mostly remember the Best Carrot Cake Ever. ...Along with the slight intoxication I felt from drinking all that vodka.

Today one of my friends mentioned that this blog is feeling less like "The Girl Who Ate Everything" and more like "The Girl Who Ate Nothing." Yes, I fail. I've reached the point of eating so much that I haven't had the time to blog any of it, a dilemma I hope to correct soon. To see all my eats, remember to check out my Flickr page or read my Twitter. You can't escape the Boppy. Ever. Please enjoy this prison I have created for you.

"What did you do for New Year's Eve, Robyn?"

Short answer: A friend and I cooked all day and along with my roommate watched TV all night, unable to turn away from the awkward Dick Clark moments (I know he had a stroke, and it completely sucks, but it's still awkward) and only mildly less awkward cookie-cutter comebacks from Ryan Seacrest.

Here's the longer answer.

Sweet sweet veg.

Ken accompanied me to my neighborhood Foodtown so we could cook up a New Year's Eve feast of vegetables and more vegetables, making my last meal of 2008 unintentionally vegetarian-friendly and possibly the healthiest meal I had eaten all year. It's not often I can say a meal turned my digestive system into a raging flume of fiber. And by "not often" I mean "pretty much never." There were no simple carbohydrates, just various kinds of non-animal-derived substances, aside from the honey because we just had to include bee exploitation.

Chickpeas!

We started by de-skinning a can of chickpeas. The process was rather calming: pick up chickpea between thumb and index finger, gently squeeze to pop the naked-er chickpea out of its slimy, semi-translucent skin. Repeat 500 times.

Note: This entry originally took place on December 14, 2008. My memory of events that happened nearly a month ago are rather iffy; you're best off enjoying the food porn. Additionally, I'm writing this at a stupidly late hour that is inconducive to writing in an entertaining, descriptive manner, giving you all the more reason to skip the parts that look like tiny, uniform shapes drawn in thin black lines neatly lined up in seemingly random patterns.

Sunset over Red Hook.

I remember this day quite well because it started off with me wanting to die, but ended with me wanting to die considerably less.

After two friends had canceled plans on me and I was stuck with the prospect of staying at home and feeling like crap or going out and possibly not feeling like crap, I chose the latter in a surprising decision of non-laziness and dragged my partially willing body to the G train to get to the Brooklyn Flea Holiday Market. With head flumped over, ears stuffed with earphones playing Fleet Foxes, and hood partially covering my grumpy visage, I felt that I had successfully gotten the, "Don't Come Within a Five Foot Radius of Me," look down.

But when I was about to get off the train, someone dared tap me on the shoulder. I turned to see the welcoming face of Erin and, back in the subway seat, Alex of Blondie and Brownie. WHAT DIMENSION OF THE G TRAIN HAD I STUMBLED INTO? The dimension where I sat almost directly across from two of the most awesome food people I know and was dangerously close to getting off the train without even acknowledging their presence.

They welcomed me as the third member of their League of Sugar-Hunting Awesome People. Grumpiness melted away, and all was good with the world.

CUPCAKE!

For my first bite of the day, I ate a vanilla cupcake from One Girl Cookies. The cake was heavier than most and not of the fluffy sort—cornbread-y, perhaps—and I thought it could have used more frosting to balance out the cake. Sweetness level was fine—not too much or too little. Overall, not bad, just an atypical in my history of cupcake eating experiences.

"I'm going to Song Kran," announced Ed around lunch time. "Does anyone want anything?"

As I slowly swiveled my head to the right to answer Ed, Erin simultaneously glanced towards me from her desk situated diagonally across from mine. Her face broke into a grin just before she guffawed. Because she knew—she knew I was going to say, "YES, GET ME A SIDEWALK." And then I did.

Did I eat this in 10 minutes? Something like that.

I tore into my container of spiced minced chicken about 10 seconds after Ed returned with the goods. As its meaty fumes wafted around the office, Erin IM-ed me:

"smells soo good
I wish I ordered the walk of side"

And the walk of side wished it was in your belly, Erin.

Oh yeah, what the hell is the Sidewalk? Familiarize yourself by reading Adam's confession of Sidewalk addiction on Serious Eats: New York. I shall gank his description:

Sidewalk is ground chicken with string beans, Thai basil, onion, red bell pepper and chili sauce, served with a fried egg and rice. The vegetables always taste fresh and hover somewhere between sautédom and crunchdom. The egg is over easy, with the yolk running and mixing with the rice and chicken component, giving the dish a slightly richer feel.

The crispy fried egg elevates this dish by 100 imaginary "delicious" points, by the way. It's a nice extra you can alternate with the mouthfuls of chicken. If you're like me, you might think, "Oh, and what do we have here, A FUCKING FRIED EGG, YEEEAAAH!" while excitedly piercing the egg's belly with your fork prongs to unleash a river of rich, bright yellow yolk...

...If you're normal, you'll probably eat it in silence.

Mary's Fish Camp

Whenever Kathy and I need to refer to "that time we went to a restaurant that kind of sucked and wasn't worth it," Mary's Fish Camp pops up, usually followed by a short recap about why it sucked—a recap that morphs with every telling like a confusing game of Telephone.

"How much was that lobster roll? Like $30-something? And remember when the waitress's head exploded in a ball of flames because she was a minion of the Underworld? The service was terrible."

It wasn't actually that bad—it just wasn't that good, especially factoring in the high expectations we had for it considering its reputation as a semi-beloved West Village eatery and that it was opened by a former partner of Pearl Oyster Bar, a restaurant that I do recommend. I didn't get to blog about the Mary's experience when I ate there last October with Kathy and Yvo, but I feel like I ought to record it now for posterity's sake, even if it's three months late.

Check out Kathy's and Yvo's posts for more descriptive information. I'm pretty much cribbing from them anyway, but plopping in my photos.

I have at least two posts in the works. And by "in the works" I mean "tucked away in the folds of my brain meats, mostly unrealized outside of my skull, aside from a crappy sentence or two that I'll have to rewrite anyway."

But I have time to post this quick, random question: Do I have any readers who live in/have been to Iceland? I know Ulla, fellow NYC-based food blogger, has Icelandic roots. And I think that's as close as I've gotten to Iceland. Aside from going to Norway. Instead of bothering just her though, I'd rather bother THE WHOLE INTERNET.

Travel partner-in-crime Diana and I are considering visiting Iceland in March for a week. Alas, we have no contacts to bum off of like in Weegieland (that I know of...unless you are one...in which case I will pay you handsomely with big, fat chocolate chip cookies), but I've heard that there are nice places we can stay at that won't gouge our wallets. Of course, we will have to eat tasty things as well.

This idea is very tentative seeing as we don't know how much this trip would cost. But if we're ever going to cross Iceland off our "To Visit" list, now seems to be a good time. If you have any advice that would push us towards Bjork Land before we consult faceless guidebooks and websites, please leave a comment or email me (roboppy@gmail.com). Thank you!

Related
Bologna: Day 1
Spring Break in Paris: Day 1
This is Norway

Oh Pinkberry, you started this, didn't you...

Flurt. Eskimix. /eks/. Daydream. Red Cherry. Yoqua Bar. Yoberry. Yogurtberry. Berrywild. Do 95 percent of all new frozen yogurt shops have to have names that sound like crappy fragrances marketed towards tween girls? Admittedly, I'm no good at coming up with good names for anything—mostly pets ("I name thee Fluffypoobs,")—but I'm certain that with a name like Bucket-O-Gurt, my hypothetical frozen yogurt shop would stand out among the rest that are currently infesting New York City.

I think I reached the peak of my tolerance when I came across the frozen yogurt shop Daydream near Union Square. Daydream. While I'm sure there are people who have daydreams involving eating their way through mountains of frozen yogurt, all I want to do when I pass the cloud-lined interior is shoot a gelato-stuffed air cannon at the customers. And then maniacally laugh. And then quickly run away to evade arrest.

Oo, fermented milk.

It's not that I think Daydream or the other aforementioned shops turn out a bad product (I assume they can't suck too much if they're competing against one another). I just can't stand that there are so many frozen yogurt shops with mostly shitty, trendy names, when I'd rather have more ice cream shops and gelaterias. (I tried to think of a better word than "shitty," but all I came up with was "poopy," which is kind of the same thing with less zing. Even worse would be, "It's excrementy." That's just...that doesn't make sense.)

I like the taste of yogurt, but mostly when it's rich and fatty, à la La Fermière (easily my most oft-purchased item when I was in Paris), Fage (easily my most oft-purchased yogurt in the USA), or Liberté (a new yogurt love introduced to me by Michele)—none of that low-fat, fiber-enhanced goop meant to regulate my troubled, womanly organs. It's the same with yogurt in frozen form: I'm not looking for low calorie or healthy. Otherwise, I'd eat an orange.

Last Friday, I went to Pinkberry. I gave their character-less, low calorie, not really fat-free, turd-like swirl of frozen goo another chance. Conclusion? It still kind of sucks. (The suckiness has nothing to do with the turd-like swirl. Many frozen rope-like desserts employ the turd-like swirl technique, a presentation that I am a fan of. You just can't deny that it looks like a turd pile. And now I have reached my quota of how many times I should say "turd" in one paragraph.)

Mm, tasty.

But for dessert #1, I ate a cup of pistachio gelato and pear sorbet (topped with an extra plop of frutti di bosco, or mixed berries) from L'Arte del Gelato. That was the original plan after eating dinner with Karen, Julie, and Tyler—to just eat gelato. Good ol' gelato. Creamy. Flavorful. Nutty. Fatty. Fruity. Rich. Clean. Tasty. Goodness. It's predictably awesome. (The only non-awesome thing was that they weren't carrying grape sorbet or yogurt gelato like they did the week before. Their yogurt gelato totally kicks froyo's ass. To the moon. Of an undiscovered galaxy. That's really far away. But I only just realized that people don't eat froyo because it taste like yogurt, but because it tastes like froyo. Which is different. Or something.)

A trip was made to Pinkberry at Tyler's request. While he wasn't hungry when we were at L'Arte del Gelato, the froyo craving kicked in as soon as we left. He had a two-for-one coupon that no one else wanted to take advantage of. I may not be a big fan of froyo, but I'll eat it if it's free. For I am a glutton, and I have no shame.

Notes 'n stuff: Updates may suck for a while as I've been sickly all week, yet still as busy as I would be under optimal nasal, throat, and brain functions. All function are currently sub-optimal. I'll try to go to bed before midnight tonight; maybe that'll help.

Also, hello to anyone who comes from 1010wins.com—even though you are probably only looking at this page for five seconds before realizing that it is not actually "Downright hilarious!" But thank you to whoever deemed it worthy of linking to.

There she is.

I feel ashamed to think that I spent all this time ("all this" = a bunch of years) exploring the vast world of Chinese bakeries and never knowing that the so called pineapple bun, or bolo bao, doesn't actually contain any pineapple—it derives its name from the pineapple-like appearance of its crackly domed surface. Oh. Ohh...kay. As I mentioned in today's Sugar Rush, I find that the pineapple comparison can sometimes be weaksauce (I'm not sure if "weaksauce" is a Serious Eats-approved term), but I guess it's more unique than "plain sweet bun," which may or may not look like a pineapple.

I've definitely eaten one before, unaware that there was a name for this fluffy, mildly chewilicious and sweet bun that would propel its outer crust bits all over your face, clothing, and maybe your hair. It's not my favorite kind of bun—I prefer the heavier red bean-filled and cream-filled varieties—but it's Michele's favorite, so for her last day as an in-office intern for Serious Eats, I got her some pineapple buns. (Actually, Lee Anne got them for me to give to Michele so I wouldn't have to wake up an hour earlier to get them before work, but...too much explaining. In conclusion, thank you, Lee Anne!)

I have a habit of picking out certain phrases I like and turning them into domain names. For fun. My life is non-stop excitement and debauchery. Yeah. Yesterday, for example, I lifted gentlysquish.com from the last step in Michelle's pork belly sandwich recipe. Here's a snippet of a conversation I had with Michele on AIM today regarding another domain name possibility, post-bolo bao comsumption.

Note, re: previous entry's note: I totally didn't go to bed before midnight. I feel like fail.

Bask in the radiant glow of these waffles. Bask.

There's no point in ordering waffles at a restaurant from this point on knowing that Greg can make The Best Waffles Ever. For free. I mean, there is that small exchange of allowing him to make fun of me and guffaw at my infantile behavior, but then I get to eat DELICIOUS WAFFLES!!!! (I excuse myself from waffle-making duties because I don't have a waffle iron.)

What do The Best Waffles ever taste like? Lightly crisp. Lightly sweet. Lightly...light. The whipped egg whites turn what looks like a normal waffle into a crispy wheaty pillow laden with golden edges begging to be crunched through with your fork and full of pockets perfectly fit for blueberries and syrup and whatnot. It's beautifulllll. Never before had I encountered such a bliss-inducing waffle.

APPROVED! By Kathy and Greg.

Three out of three Asians approve (Me being the third. Not some invisible Asian person.)

Greg didn't give me the recipe, but he said I should be able to find it with the magic of Google. So I Googled. ...And got a bunch of recipes that were similar, but not the same. This one from Recipezaar sounds most promising though.

Update: Here's the recipe!

Even though these waffles initially feel feather-light, they will, like any other food, eventually compact in your belly. We went through at least four of them. Or five. You lose count after a while.